I walked into the kitchen slowly, my chest tight.
Emily was arranging the final trays, brushing crumbs from the counter, humming softly to herself.
I did not know how to say it.
“Sweetheart,” I finally said, “plans changed.”
She turned, confused. I showed her the phone.
She read the message once.
Her shoulders sank.
She did not cry. She did not yell. Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she looked at the food she had created with nowhere to go.
“Why would they do that?” she asked quietly.
I wrapped my arms around her.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we are not wasting this.”
That decision came from somewhere deep inside me. A place that had had enough.
